I need to get these finished fast, to make room for some AC2 stuff. Yeah, 3 fics going at a time is my rule; I'm prone to anarchy though, so I'm trying to stick to this... NNNGH. No rule breaking is hard. Anyway, tell me what you think, blah blah I think I'm crap blah blah I own nought blah blah Blerg. I realise Hunter is getting a lot of screen time. What can I say, hoodies are the sex!
Brb need moar crack
Best Friends Forever
Smoker limped through the streets, his tongue hanging at his side, glistening with blood and leaving a trail along the pavement; a trail that would lead those survivors straight to him. He had been shot on his first ever attempt at incapacitation, and all the infected had been there to see. He'd worried more about what they'd think of him than the wound - his dreams to become the alpha of his pack were shattered, all because of his own clumsy tendencies. Not that it mattered; his allies were dead, every last one of them. He was the only one left, and his early escape had granted him a head start at least; but the humans had guns, and would always trick infected into traps involving fire and bullets and death. Most of the zombies had fled, stayed in areas rick with flesh carcass rather than attack groups of the immune; the immune who hated them so much, who would never contemplate that the infected were sentient life forms too.
He tripped. Lying on the floor, flat on his face, Smoker began to get angry. Angry, and scared. Humans loved creating issues - issues about whether they should eat meat, or whether two of the same gender should be allowed partnership, or if the ice was melting too fast - Smoker didn't understand it. It just seemed to be an inbuilt mechanism of the humans and infected that they were out to kill each other; yet if he tried voicing his thoughts he'd be cut down by both parties.
Giving up all hope, he lay and awaited his death; the freedom from this world of pain and irrationality. He could hear their footsteps, their voices; they were coming closer. The sound of guns, the smell of gunpowder, the taste of death. Smoker turned. He would face death, and remain fearless until the end. Sitting watching the corner of the alley in which he lay, he waited. The shadows of 3 gun-wielding humans danced upon the walls in front of him - this was it, the omega, the end. Facing death had never been so easy.
They rounded the corner - a girl and two men, all young, all naive to the world around them. Wearing matching uniforms, they should have been harmless; but what they held in their hands abolished all possible castes and alphas through fear. And it was working on Smoker right now.
A familiar sound cut through the distance - a scream, a flash of black, and the girl lay dead on the floor. Before the other two could react, their throats were cut by the same black blur. With the last of his strength being depleted by his useless tongue, Smoker lay back, wondering if this black streak was what death felt like, and closed his eyes.
He felt a curious nose press against his skin, pulling him back from the black abyss. A sniffing sound; someone was sniffing him back to life? Yet he couldn't move, as if he were paralyzed underwater, and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't swim. Suddenly, the sniffing became a licking, and a rough tongue was licking his clothes, trying to get the taste from them. Tongue in agony, Smoker coughed and opened his eyes. A young hunter was crouching over him, surveying his wounds. At the moment of eye contact, the hunter jumped back; scared, yet still possessing the ever-inquisitive nature that one would only find in a hunter.
Smoker coughed again - he could feel the pain ripping through his throat and mouth, tearing him apart from within. Hunter leaped over to the human carcass and grabbed a red bag. Tearing it apart, he retrieved a long strip of white cloth and began wrapping it around Smoker's tongue. Smoker had seen the humans do this before to each other - it stopped their hurt and magically took away limps, or broken arms. However, the magic cloth didn't seem to work on infected, and Smoker continued to bleed and cough. Despite Hunter's clumsy claws ripping holes in the strip, he managed to stop the bleeding by wrapping the end of Smoker's tongue in it.
The pain dulled; Smoker could breathe without pain tearing him apart again. Slurping his toungue back into his mouth, he felt the bandage on the end - unnatural, and ungainly. However, the pain was ebbing, and he had Hunter to thank. He nodded to Hunter and turned, slowly starting to walk away. For who would have him now - his only weapon was crippled, and he aspired to become a leader. His hopes were dashed and his dreams were redundant - there was no point in sucking Hunter into his depression.
Yet he soon heard the patter of footsteps behind him, and turning, he found Hunter following on all fours. He smiled - another lost, abandoned infected soul, with nowhere else to turn.
In return, he received a sharp-toothed grin; Hunter stood up on two legs, his hunch granting him a lack of height, and walked up to Smoker.
There were no other infected around, they were forced to work together anyway - but this bond went deeper. Hunter had saved Smoker's useless life, and followed him regardless when Smoker turned his back. He felt bad for walking away from Hunter, and so held out his hand, as he'd seen the humans do.
Hunter clasped it, and vigorously yanked it. The handshake - a human gesture of friendship, frowned upon by other infected as were all human gestures. But wasn't the feeling of friendship human too; and wasn't that what they felt for each other?
Grinning, the two infected walked out of the shadow of the alley, into the sunlight, and into danger.
They were scared, angry, and crippled; yet bound together through the bond they shared.
After all, weren't they once human?
